A Malfoy and A Mercenary
by Inez Obregon
Summary: Faced with the incompetence of his Death Eaters, Voldemort hires an infamous family of assassins to further his cause. Amaris Almeida, powerful witch and mercenary, rescues Lucius from Azkaban and he is instantly enamored. Sex, intrigue, betrayal
1. Default Chapter

Musty and dank, the suffocating stench of Lord Voldemort's lair filled the lungs of his Death Eaters. Assembled hastily to deal with rather pressing concerns, the Death Eaters surrounded their leader, the hoods of their robes and the shadows cast by flickering candles hiding their faces. An embarrassing defeat at the Ministry of Magic eight months prior placed a number of Voldemort's select followers in Azkaban Prison and the morale of the Dark Lord's Death Eater's waned daily. With his most fervent supporters incarcerated and the remaining loyalists lacking the conviction of those such as Lucius Malfoy, the Dark Lord felt the need to supplement his ranks.

"We need a larger force, new blood," Voldemort hissed, his patience thin.

"It is difficult, My Lord, to gather new recruits under the present status," Wormtail squeaked nervously, voicing the opinion that his peers supported.

"That is no excuse, Wormtail," Voldemort growled, his temper rising. "I am surrounded by incompetence! How difficult is it to persuade pure bloods and Slytherins to join this worthy cause? Well?" Voldemort demanded an answer.

"There is a resurgence of vigilance, My Lord," a cloaked Death Eater spoke from within the circle encompassing Voldemort. "It is increasingly difficult if not impossible to place curses on those we might prey on," the Death Eater explained. "Not only that, but those inclined to join us entertain second thoughts now that Malfoy and the others remain in prison. The death of Narcissa only increased the fear to join our ranks," he tried to make the Dark Lord understand.

Voldemort issued a throaty sigh, his nostrils flaring with disgust. Though he refused to accept the information, Voldemort knew that his subordinate spoke the truth. Before the attack on the Ministry of Magic, Voldemort's ranks swelled with young recruits, those witches and wizards yearning for power and wealth. Yet, weeks following the fiasco, his numbers dwindled until they reached a stalemate. The recent murder of Narcissa Malfoy while she attempted to free her husband from the Order's grasp had all but cemented the fate of his grand plan.

"No one will leave this room until a solution has been met," Voldemort decided. "Surely there is one among you with half a brain," Voldemort sneered.

A few seconds of quiet ensued with the rustling of robes providing the only sound. Tension mounted as no one spoke and Voldemort ground his teeth in frustration, his fists curling in anger. Finally, the voice of one of his chosen broke the silence...

"Perhaps, My Lord, we might look outside of our realm for aid," Bellatrix Lestrange offered timidly.

"Outside our realm?" Voldemort's interest was piqued. "Do elaborate."

"If we could only break Lucius and the others free from Azkaban, I think we might be able to strengthen our ranks," Bellatrix reasoned. "If the Wizarding world were to see that we are still able to thwart the security of Dumbledore and his Order, then we might succeed in convincing the uncertain to join us. If Lucius were to rejoin us it would rekindle the confidence that so many have lost."

"Continue," Voldemort waved his hand, listening to her idea.

"As we have failed your lordship before, I feel that it would be prudent to hire...henchmen...for lack of a better term," Bellatrix paused a moment, waiting to see if Voldemort approved of her plan thus far. When he made no indication of fault, she continued. "I propose that we seek out the Almeidas."

A collective gasp and murmur filled the room. The Almeidas required no introduction: throughout the Wizarding world their name was synonymous with assassin. One of the oldest families in Europe, the Almeidas of Spain possessed great pride in the purity of their blood and the shiver their name created when spoken. Known as the most ruthless assassins in the world, the Almeida family's well-honed skills were the result of centuries of breeding and training. With no real moral convictions, the Almeida's power could be purchased for a price. They owed loyalty only to their assignments and nothing more; there were even rumors that Almeidas would murder each other if hired to do so.

"An excellent suggestion, Bellatrix," Voldemort's lip curled in a sniveling smirk. "Arrange a meeting between the Almeidas and myself...."

Abran Almeida, patriarch of his merciless surname, sauntered along the labyrinth of twists and turns leading to Voldemort's lair. Not an easily intimidated man, Abran remained unimpressed by his surroundings and the cloaked Death Eaters that escorted him to their Dark Lord. Tall and muscular, Abran bore his fifty-three years with the ease of a man half his age and emitted an air of contempt and arrogance at all times. Trained to ignore his base needs and desires, Abran always seemed cold, unfeeling. Not even towards his wife, Dameta, did he show warmth or affection. Because he was able to separate his humanity from his occupation, Abran enjoyed the distinction of being the most successful assassin in the world, magic or not.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Sr. Almeida," Voldemort's raspy voice greeted him. Somewhat surprised by Abran's choice of garb, Voldemort wondered if wearing a muggle suit was comfortable. The senior Almeida moved with ease in his black and grey pinstripe Armani suit complete with the best platinum cufflinks and the finest leather shoes money could buy. Voldemort supposed it was necessary for Abran to dress that way, after all, Abran's business served not only the Wizarding community, but the non-magical world as well.

"Voldemort," Abran nodded in response, taking a seat across from his potential employer.

"Can I offer you refreshments?" Voldemort's hospitality surprised his guest.

"No. This isn't a social call, after all," Abran betrayed his Spanish accent as he spoke.

Caught off guard by Abran's curt retort, Voldemort realized that Abran was one of those few men brave enough to cross him. Not only that, Voldemort knew that Abran could easily kill him if he pleased. Careful, he warned himself. "Well, I suppose I should get to the point. I require your services in a rather sensitive matter. I need you to free a group of my Death Eaters from Azkaban Prison."

"I thought as much," Abran commented, removing a piece of parchment from his suit pocket. "Even without the Dementors, it will be difficult," Abran replied, considering everything that must be planned and allotted for in order for a successful mission.

"But not impossible," Voldemort arched an eyebrow.

"Nothing is impossible for the Almeidas," Abran laughed, amused that Voldemort would insinuate he might fail. "However, it will be expensive."

"Oh?" Voldemort watched Abran scribble a figure on the parchment he held.

"Si. I will require the use of both my sons and my daughter," Abran slid the paper across the desk to Voldemort.

Though the amount was a good deal more than Voldemort had expected, he refrained from displaying the shock on his face. "It shouldn't be a problem," Voldemort responded. "How soon can you complete the task?"

"Three days." Abran's answer was automatic. "I need to time to gather my children, perform reconnaissance, and plan our attack."

"You said you have three children? Two sons and a daughter?" Voldemort clarified.

"Yes. Alano, Alessio, and Amaris."

"I was under the impression that only Almeida men sold their services as assassins," Voldemort had never heard of a woman working as a covert mercenary.

"Amaris is the first," Abran answered.

"I take it she is skilled?"

"More skilled than either of my sons will ever be," Abran allowed the smallest hint of a smile to crack his stony façade as she thought of his headstrong daughter. What Amaris lacked in discipline, she more than made up for in talent. Though volatile and extremely independent, Amaris never failed her missions and more often than not she surpassed his expectations.

"Hmmm..." Voldemort murmured, an idea blossoming in his twisted mind. "I wonder if your daughter might consider staying on with us, here, as a Death Eater? I am in serious need of an assassin on my staff, someone I can trust to complete the jobs I assign," Voldemort explained.

"I see," Abran stretched his legs, carefully weighing his options before he made a commitment on his daughter's behalf. "Though I have the utmost confidence in my daughter's performance, I doubt that she would be willing to remain in one area for a long period of time. She is a bit of a....free spirit," Abran made allowances for his daughter's somewhat tempestuous nature.

"But for a price, she would consider the offer?" Voldemort's willingness to secure a mercenary was clearly evident as he returned Abran's parchment with another number written below the first.

"I will mention it," Abran made no promise, though he knew his daughter would be stupid to turn down such a fee. "If there is nothing else, then I will see contact you tomorrow with the details of our arrangement." Abran stood and with a bob of his head exited Voldemort's chambers....

"How was your meeting, Father?" Alano Almeida stood from his seat where he had been patiently waiting for his father. "Would you like a glass of brandy or Scotch?" Alana moved towards the liquor service in his father's office.

"Scotch, please." Abran settled into his high backed leather chair, placing his briefcase on his desk. "As for the meeting, it went as expected. A simple recovery mission," Abran accepted the glass his eldest son offered him.

Twenty-six and ruggedly handsome, Alano stood a few inches above six feet and looked like a mirror image of his father. The few differences between them were Alano's clean-shaven face as opposed to his father's moustache and Alano's shoulder-length wavy black hair. In disposition they were equal; Alano's decisions were always calculated and he understood the art of business. After all, Alano's destiny was to manage the Almeida family business when his father retired.

"Azkaban, I suppose," Alano questioned.

"Of course," Abran swallowed the remainder of the amber liquid in his glass before continuing. "We will need Alessio and Amaris for this one. Though Azkaban's Dementors are gone, the prison is now guarded by highly skilled witches and wizards. Some Order of something," Abran summoned a map of the prison from a drawer with the flick of his wrist.

As he watched the map float through the air, Alano spoke. "You will want me to gather information on the guards, I suppose."

"Yes. Alessio?" Abran raised his voice, calling for his second son.

A few seconds later, Alessio appeared beside his brother in response to his father's call. Unlike their magical counterparts, the Almeidas possessed the ability to appear and disappear without sound in a blink of the eye; they need only will it and they could travel anywhere in the world. Connected by blood, the Almeidas could sense one another regardless of the distance between them and felt a tugging in the pit of their stomach when their presence was requested. By channeling energy, they identified their caller and would shimmer away at once. It was very natural to them as they learned to do it very early in their childhood, moving from room to room as their father beckoned, honing their abilities with each apparition.

"You wanted me, father?" Alessio smiled, taking a seat on the chaise beside his brother. At twenty-two, Alessio's features retained some of his boyish softness, accentuating the curves of his cheeks and the spark in his brown eyes. Unlike Alano, Alessio chose to dress more comfortably, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a starched white shirt rather than a suit. With closely cropped brown hair and a diamond stud in his left ear, Alessio looked as though he belonged on the pages of a fashion magazine, not in his father's office discussing an illegal clandestine mission.

"We have a job in three nights," Alano pointed at the map levitating before them.

"Azkaban? I was under the impression that you had decided not to interfere in that particular coup? Haven't you always said Voldemort disgusts you, that his cause is abhorrent?" Alessio's confusion spilled into his comment.

A flash of annoyance lit across Abran's face before he answered his second son. "Voldemort does disgust me, but his money...." Abran's voice trailed off. "At any rate, it's not as though Voldemort will ever succeed. In the end, I'm sure he will die at the hands of that silly boy, Harry.... Whatever his name is... and we will have profited from the situation. That is what we do, Alessio. We simply exploit the issue for a fee," Abran defended his decision to accept a job from Voldemort.

Alessio didn't answer his father. Though not excited about working for Voldemort, Alessio realized that this was the nature of their business. Their clients were rarely people he respected and their missions were equally as distasteful, but that was the way of it. Besides, if they didn't do it, some other mercenary would and they would lose business.

"I want you to join your brother in England tomorrow and gather information on the prison and the people guarding the prisoners. Amaris and I will design an attack and exit plan," Abran stopped suddenly, realizing his daughter had not appeared in his office yet. "Where is your sister?" Abran sent Amaris another psychic page of sorts, requesting her presence.

Alessio fidgeted uneasy as his father's frustration mounted. Gifted with a keen sense of magical radar, Alessio sensed his sister's position and sighed. How many times had Abran forbidden her to go there? In a few moments his father would ask him where she was (as Abran inevitably did every time) and Alessio would find himself in the midst of a predicament: to betray his sister or lie to his father?

"Alessio, where the hell is Amaris," Abran demanded, recognizing his youngest son's discomfort.

A split-second battle raged in Alessio's mind. Betray Amaris? God, how she would make his life a living hell when she got her hands on him.... Lie to his father? Though his sister's temper and skill in revenge were infamous, his father's disappointment seemed the greater evil... "Amsterdam."

Rage coursed through Abran's body. Amsterdam! Abran distinctly remembered forbidding his young daughter from traveling to Amsterdam for her weekend parties. Rampant with sex and everything illicit, Amsterdam was exactly the kind of place no father wanted to imagine his daughter visiting. Though he knew she was more than capable of protecting herself, Abran doubted she had the ability to refuse excessive amounts of alcohol and drugs. Abran detested the use of mind-altering concoctions and never allowed their consumption during the days leading up to a mission. Amaris was more than aware of his rules and yet she continued to flaunt them, to disobey him. Damn her....

"Find her and bring her home," Abran snarled, pointing at Alessio...


	2. Amsterdam

Sweaty and hot, the sea of bodies inside the night club gyrated and swayed to the deafening techno beats filling the club. Dark walls covered in neon paint splatters glowed under the black lights and the flash of strobes created the illusion of slow, choppy movements amidst the chaos. Sleek, shiny poles stood down the middle of the dance floor and scantily clad women swiveled their thighs around them in a series of risqué moves atop the dais. Scanning the crowded room for his sister, Alessio forced himself to stay his course, regretfully turning down the shots offered to him. Spotting the VIP lounge near the back of the club, Alessio slowly crossed the dance floor, allowing the hands of strangers to grope him, sliding across his rippled abs and tugging at the waistband of his jeans. Slyly smiling, Alessio made a mental note to thank his sister later and offer to bring her back to Amsterdam some other weekend....

A huge Dutchman blocked his entrance to the VIP lounge. "Wie fuck u denkt u bent, 


End file.
